


Tying my Shoelaces

by truc



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Dignity, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Life - Freeform, Love, M/M, dying, proposal, shoelaces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: Bruce Wayne's story told through the use of shoelaces/shoes.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	Tying my Shoelaces

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dying Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24618646) by [truc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc). 



> I got inspired to write this while writing my fic for the Superbat Reverse Bang.

As he was running on grass, Bruce almost fell headfirst into the ground. Thankfully, his father stopped his fall with one hand.

"Bruce, Darling, your shoelaces are untied."

"I'm fine, dad."

Bruce's father shook his head. "All shoelaces must be tied, Bruce." He crunched himself to Bruce's level. "Do you want to know why?" he asked conspiratorially.

"Why?"

His father took the two ends of the shoelace in his hands. "A man must learn how to walk with dignity." With a flourish, he made a bow knot. "It's hard to walk with dignity when you keep falling on your face."

"Dad, I wasn't going to fall; I'm not a kid anymore," Bruce said, a frown etched on his chubby face.

His father rose high above Bruce's head like the giant he was. "If you say so." He winked at him as he shoved both hands into his pockets. The adult started to whistle annoyingly.

"Dad," Bruce shouted as he ran after him, "I wasn't going to fall!"

To Bruce's displeasure, the whistling only grew stronger.

***

At eight, Bruce could lace his shoelaces ambidextrously.

At fifteen, Bruce challenged himself to complete the most hangman's knots with his shoelaces possible during his detentions.

At twenty, while under the League of Assassins' tutelage, Bruce altogether stopped wearing shoes.

At twenty-five, there was no dignity left to salvage with tied shoelaces.

***

The first time Bruce spoke with Clark, both in their civilian identity, at a Gala, he touched Clark's shoulder and said: "Hey man, your shoes are unknotted. If you don't want to fall, you should attend to it."

The reporter pushed his glasses back and glanced down. "Thanks, Mister... Mister Wayne," he replied as he smiled politely at him with his nervous, small-town outsider impression.

Years later, Clark admitted: "You took me by surprise. Most people in big towns don't remind strangers to tie their shoelaces, especially not drunk, narcissistic and careless rich playboys."

Bruce had given him an unimpressed look.

"Hey, recognize, for all of your thoroughness and perfectionism, you broke character first."

Bruce leaned back on the doorframe. "I admit no such failing. I'm always in character."

"You're certainly always a character," Clark said, his eyes shiny with amusement and fondness.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

And, despite using some 'unorthodox' method, Bruce did shut Clark up.

***

When Dick wore a suit at his first formal event, Bruce checked upon him. He found his ward glaring at his formal pair of shoes. The boy shook his head and began unlacing the shoelaces.

"Chum, what's wrong with the shoelaces?"

Dick started and looked up. "Whoever prepared them did a bad job."

"Why?"

"They were too lazy to make x with the shoelaces!"

Bruce blinked and decided not to point out formal shoes were usually straight-bar laced, not criss-cross laced. "Do you need any help redoing it correctly?"

Dick sighed. "Might as well. You take one shoe; I'll take the other."

"Okay."

Together, they resolved the lacing issue; the only overly critical matron who tried to criticize Dick's ignorant lacing technique during the Gala got glared into submission by his watchful guardian.

If Bruce bought Dick some fancy velcro shoes at their next outing, nobody commented on their appearance at their next public presentation.

***

"Bruce, what are you doing?" Clark asked nervously.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Bruce hummed.

"You are tying me up in the office I _**share**_ with at least _**two**_ co-workers. I think this falls under the professionalism behaviour's lapses that can get me fired."

"You're not stopping me," the other man pointed out as he finished tying the reporter to his chair. Clark truthfully had no rebut to offer to that observation.

Bruce lifted his chin with his index. "I locked the door. That gives you exactly five seconds to straighten up the dirty mess if Lois returns and ten seconds if Jimmy Olsen does. You only need one second to get off at superspeed and two seconds to clean everything."

Then, the man grinned. "That's _if_ you don't like getting caught debauching yourself with a famous playboy." As Clark turned increasingly red, he continued: "I'm sure Jimmy would apologize for intruding in his office and leave in shame. If it's Lois, she would stand and watch us finish while offering some witty comments."

Clark swallowed as he looked into his 'casual' lover's eyes (was it even what they were?).

Public sex fantasies were fine as fantasies, but he didn't want to avoid Lois for days or for Jimmy to avoid him for days. But, hey, he wasn't above using his powers for some harmless fun with a thrill-seeking Bruce, especially not when his eyes shone with the unstoppable magic mix of lust and playful- truly a rarety.

"Okay."

Bruce kissed him on the bridge between his eyes, something Clark had always found oddly endearing.

"One question: why are you using my shoelaces?"

"Mine cost more," Bruce stated, daring him to contradict him. How much did high-class shoelaces even cost? Was that really a thing?

Clark raised one eyebrow. "Proportionally to our income, **_mine_** cost more." He sighed. "Never mind that, don't you have 'gadgets' on you all the time?"

Bruce overturned his pockets to show they were empty. "Contrary to popular opinion, I don't carry dildos in my pockets."

Clark rolled his eyes at Bruce's fake obliviousness. "I meant handcuffs, Bruce, handcuffs."

"Kinky, but no," Bruce said as he sat in Clark's lap. He shifted his weight pleasantly. Taking in Clark's shirt's collar in his hands, he whispered, "Would you like me to start carrying 'special toys' with me all the time? It might be fun to see how my next kidnappers react to _that_ pat-down. Maybe I'd embarrassed them into releasing me..." He licked Clark's ear and bit his earlobe as he started pressing down on Clark's lap with his ass. "Or, I can accidentally drop them at my next scheduled public 'inebriated' appearance. That'll make headlines, alright."

"Bruce," Clark whined as he was getting hard on the barely-there friction.

"What wrong?" Bruce asked with a wicked smile.

"Less talk, more action."

"Such a sweet-talker you are," Bruce purred as he pounced.

***

"Bruce," Alfred hesitatingly said, "I can do it."

The younger man didn't answer from his haunched station.

"Bruce..." The voice sounded plaintive.

Yet, the younger man held his face downward, whether, in shame, guilt or sadness, Alfred couldn't decipher.

"Bruce, please answer me," Alfred begged as he stepped forward.

Water fell from the stalactites somewhere in the cave. Maybe they too were feeling the enormous loss, crying for the missing colours and sounds.

"You haven't eaten, spoken or slept in days, Bruce. Dick's worried. _I'm_ worried."

Bruce's hands shook again as they painfully tried to complete their menial task.

Finally, Bruce said: "I wasn't a good father to him, Alfred, but, this, I can do."

Alfred closed his eyes and tears fell down his cheeks.

Before Bruce could turn around from his morbid task, Alfred wiped away the proof of his weakness.

"He's dead, Alfred."

There were a weariness and guiltiness embedded deep in Bruce's statement.

Alfred looked at both of his boys, one lying dead on the Batcave's medical table, dressed in a brand new suit, and the other sitting haunched over him, gaunt and haunted. Bruce couldn't even tie Jason's shoelaces.

"I can guide your hands," Clark proposed from behind Alfred. He had been supposed to wait upstairs for Alfred to fetch Bruce.

"It's my responsibility, Clark," Bruce snapped, almost feral.

Clark walked closer to Bruce's back. "It is, but I can help. You don't have to do everything by yourself."

Heat permeated from Bruce's back as Clark shuffled closer. Arms unfolded around Bruce's shoulders; hands covered Bruce's.

Gently, Clark closed Bruce's hands, folding them protectively against themselves. The shakes, the ones hindering Bruce, subsided as if physiologic warmth had been lacking.

Bruce knew it was untrue; he knew the batcave, for all of its dankness and low temperature, was suited for his basic needs, that it wasn't the coldness of the room that had his hands shaking.

Clark was always too warm, patient and tender for him.

"Would you like to give it another go?"

Bruce nodded.

He looked at his son's feet.

Jason wasn't going to stumble anymore on his ever-growing cumbersome teenager's feet, Bruce realized with a stab of pain. All those times where Bruce teased him about his puberty and Jason grumbled back were gone forever.

Nobody would ever truly fill the gigantic, national-anthem-humming and strobe-light-blaring sneakers in the Manor's hallways again- the ones Jason wore when he was especially annoyed with Bruce...

Hands slightly clumsy, he reached for shoelaces on his son's left foot and deliberately tied them in a bow. He did the same to the other shoe.

Bruce shined the shoes until they were practically reflecting his face at him.

All the while, Clark's hands weightlessly covered his, akin to a second skin or a protective glove.

Jason almost seemed alive, though Jason wouldn't be caught dead in his funeral outfit.

Somehow, that was a fitting way to dissociate alive Jason from dead Jason.

***

At the horizon, the sun was quietly setting in a blood-thirsty red. Soon, villains would plot nefarious schemes. Soon, Batman would be needed.

And Bruce could ditch these horrible facsimile interactions.

He'd lost Jason less than two months ago and, already, everyone but Alfred, Clark and Dick seemed to forget about him. The strangers invariably tried to use Bruce to their advantage, be it business, fame, money or curiosity.

Not that Alfred, Clark or Dick was a better company to be around. On the contrary, he could read pity and sorrow in Clark's and Alfred's eyes and mourning anger in Dick's- _when_ Dick spoke to him. Worse, all three were disappointed in his 'suicidal' behaviour.

Bruce leaned on the balcony.

Suicidal would be drinking himself to death, throwing himself over the railing or letting himself sink impassively into indifference. Each of these possibilities was easier than continuing to fight as Batman without his Robin or, worse, living without Jason.

"Mister Wayne," a voice broke Bruce out of his sombre thoughts.

Bruce glanced at his side to see a teenager staring firmly into his eyes.

His facade.

He needed to compose himself, to lose his gloom.

"Hey," Bruce answered back with an easygoing smile.

The teenager's eyes widened at Bruce's reaction but still stepped forward. "Please accept my belated condolences for your son's death."

Surprised, Bruce nonetheless thanked him. The teenager didn't go back inside; instead, he moved to the railing and looked at the sunset.

"Although I saw glimpses of him here and there, I'm afraid I didn't get to know him," the teenager said. "I regret that now."

Bruce understood the feeling. Somedays, it was hard to breathe through the regret, the anger and the sorrow. Instead of fearing the worst for Jason, instead of comparing his awkwardness to Dick's natural grace, he should have gotten to know him better.

"You did nothing wrong," Bruce reassured the teenager.

The teenager studied him. Something in the intelligent eyes' intensity pulled Bruce out of his head and forced him to observe the teenager.

The clothes, sharply chosen and worn, made him appeared like a mini adult, especially when he wore that serious and wise look. He wore confidence like a fitted glove.

Timothy Drake, Bruce recalled, had always seemed an old soul, a child's body in dissonance with his personality's maturity.

Yet, there was something off, something revealing in the way the tie and the shoelaces seemed constraining, stiffening.

Mechanically, Bruce loosed up the tie. Only then did he notice that Timothy appeared panicked and that Bruce had entered the teenager's bubble and touched him without his permission.

"Sorry," Bruce said, smile faltering, "Force of habit." Even if Bruce missed both experiences, fixing ties on hyperactive or touch aversive teenager had been an ordeal of its kind.

The teenager's face relaxed into a kind smile. "Have a nice evening, Mister Wayne."

"Wait," Bruce called out. Timothy turned around.

"You laced your shoelaces too tight," Bruce said. "You'll damage your foot nerves."

The teenager appeared surprised at the kindness. He, contrary to the rest of the interaction, shyly nodded and moved back inside.

Bruce looked a few seconds more in the direction the teenager had disappeared. Then, his gaze returned to the setting sun.

It was late enough; even Alfred couldn't complain if Batman went out at this time.

***

Sitting on a repaired part of the wood fence, Bruce and Clark looked at the magical Smallville sunrise. The only reason Bruce was awake was that he hadn't gone to sleep yet.

"You know," Clark started slowly, in a practiced way, "When we first met, I thought we were two ends of the same shoelace."

Bruce's body started shaking, minutely at first, until he erupted in an absurd giggle fit that had him shaking their whole fence section.

Clark looked at him to the fence in worry. Then back to him. "Bruce...?"

When Bruce managed to get his giggle under control, he said, "This is too cheesy."

"What?"

"You were going to say that we should 'tie the knot.'"

Clark's worried gaze hardened instantly.

Bruce gestured him to continue.

Clark crossed his arms and looked at the sun.

"I will say yes."

Clark shrugged and bitterly answered: "I haven't asked you."

A pause.

"Clark, are you mad?"

"I should have seen this coming: you calling my marriage proposal cheesy."

Bruce sighed. "Fine. I apologize, but _**that** _was cheesy."

"Really?!?"

"Shoelaces and tying the knot? That's a play on words, Clark, a play on words."

Clark uncrossed his arms. "I supposed that's true."

Another pause.

"But I'm not asking you in marriage."

"That's not a problem. Clark, will you..."

"AND," Clark interrupted Bruce's proposal with an outstretched hand, "I won't accept your proposal unless it's cheesier than mine."

A pause.

"This is the time you choose to be petty?"

"Hey, if we are to live together, I better set good precedents so you'll choose a better time to exercise your smartassness. You LAUGHED at my carefully prepared proposal! You're lucky I'm giving you another chance."

Bruce pouted, but he knew nothing would budge Clark from his position. He'd have to read Harlequins or teen magazines for inspiration: he should be able to pull painfully cheesy.

"Why shoelaces, though?"

Clark sighed. "We met in our civilian identity because of shoelaces. It seemed poetic in the full-circle kind of way."

Bruce placed his hand on Clark's. "Maybe I meant poetic when I said cheesy."

"You GIGGLED," Clark pointed out, still offended, but letting Bruce take his hand.

"Let me make it up to you, okay?" Bruce kissed the back of Clark's hand.

"You better," Clark grumbled, "Or I'm dumping your ass in Coast City instead of Gotham."

"Now, that's just plain cruel."

***

"Are you sure putting shoelaces on your vigilante boots is a good idea? I mean, villains do slash at your feet once in a while," Dick said as he played with the parallel bar.

"A real man has to conduct himself with dignity befitting his station, Grayson," Damian replied from his spot training with a practice stick.

"I must admit, Demon Brat, lacing your green boots with red shoelaces is quite the fashion statement," Jason added in, feet carelessly thrown on the Batcomputer's board.

"His shoelaces are knife resistant," Tim interjected as he continued to type in his cellphone, "That's why Bruce approved the change."

Dick heaved himself up. "Doesn't it take longer to put on?"

Damian slashed the air with his stick. "I'm a trained assassin," as if that explained everything.

"It's true that, in the circus, the performers could change an elaborate outfit in a short amount of time," Dick agreed.

Jason cackled, "He called you a circus act, Demon Brat. Protect your honour!"He lifted a fist in the air in mockery.

"If the shoe fits," Tim mumbled.

Damian snarled, "I'm an assassin, not an exhibitionist."

Dick frowned at him. "Being a performer is honourable."

"Besides," Tim wryly added, "attention seekers tend to agglomerate in this house." Damian, Dick and Jason looked around and noticed they were all in the proximity of each other.

"Fuck you, Replacement. You're not better than us."

"Oh? Was I the one wearing pixie shorts? Or killing villains in a showy fashion or exploding things?" Tim answered.

"The shorts were cool!" Dick answered.

Jason, Damian and Tim looked at him in disbelief before returning to their discussion.

"As I was saying," Tim said, "You're all attention seekers. I'm not."

Bruce shook his head from the spot he'd been watching them up the stairs.

As if Tim starting this conversation was not to get everyone's attention. Wasn't that a paradox in itself?

As Bruce went upstairs, Clark intercepted him. "Still spying on your kids?"

Bruce slanted an eyebrow. "Still spying on your husband?"

Clark laughed in that sun-loving noise Bruce had learned to adore.

"Hypocrite," Clark gently told him as Bruce put his arm around his shoulder.

***

Years went by faster than soles on boys' shoes.

At forty-one, Bruce tied his first grandchildren's shoe.

At forty-eight, Bruce buried his last parent's shoes in his family's graveyard.

At fifty-seven, Bruce permanently shelved Batman's boots.

At sixty-five and seventy-three, Bruce tied two of his sons' shoes. Although he didn't need it this time, Clark's hands covered his at each shoelacing session.

At eighty-nine, Bruce bitterly cried because he couldn't tie his shoes alone anymore.

At ninety-seven, Clark cried because Bruce wouldn't wear any shoes, partly because his feet swell too much, partly because he was on a ventilator full time.

At ninety-eight, Bruce fell in a coma.

***

Eventually, even someone as tough as an old shoe, at one point in time, has to wait for the other shoe to drop.

Today was Bruce's day.

He knew it well before Clark did.

Instead of falling in a void of sensation, as he had for some time, he _**felt**_ things other than blurs.

Now, he could hear, scent and sense Clark by his side with a clarity he hadn't felt in- who knows how long? Now, he could see the light at the end of the tunnel, a tunnel unlike any in Gotham. Both realities were so vivid, so bright that Bruce knew what it meant: he was dying.

The realization, which in most people evoked fear, left him curious in a dispassionate scientific way- he'd always looked forward to using his talent to decode whichever adventure waited for him on the other side.

Maybe he'd meet all sorts of souls from all corners of the universe. Perhaps he'd finally be able to decipher the inner-workings or logic- if ever there was one- of the creation. If there was a creator or creators, he had prepared a list of questions to ask them. They better be ready for some earnest cross-examinations... Because Bruce wouldn't let them coop out answering his questions, even if he had to badger them.

Maybe all the dead relatives and friends were waiting for him.

For the first time in a very long time, Bruce felt panic.

Would he recognize his parents?

He couldn't remember their voices, faces or anything other than vague approximation about them.

Would they even recognize what their eight years old boy had become?

Despite his apprehensions about his parents, the light oddly enough pulled him towards the tunnel, until he stumbled.

His shoes were untied (how did he even know he had shoes?).

Despite the lack of body, Bruce felt like laughing into the void.

Two ends of a shoelace. Dignity.

Wasn't it the most unmistakable message Clark could have sent him?

Clark wasn't ready.

So, under the reassuring gaze of the otherworldly light, Bruce waited.

He waited.

And waited.

He'd keep his promise.

Clark deserved it.

He felt his husband cling to his hand. He felt his husband's brokenheartedness.

Although Bruce tried to cover his husband's hands with his, to reassure him he was still 'spying' on him, his body and soul were so divided that he failed.

Then, Bruce attempted to move away from the light at the end of the tunnel. He didn't stumble on loose shoelaces.

Clark was ready.

If Bruce could force one word out of his dying lips, he'd say "Clark"; Clark would understand every nuance- every "I love you," "Thank you," "Goodbye," and "I'm sorry"- in his name.

He couldn't say anything more, couldn't hold Clark in his time of need. He couldn't help him mourn his death.

A lifetime of memories would have to suffice because Bruce couldn't give Clark anything anymore.

The light enveloped him and-


End file.
